


Scenes from Unguarded

by birdsofshore



Series: Unguarded [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angsty Wanking, Cross-Generation Relationship, Dark Mark Kink, Dildos, Embarrassment, Hogwarts, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Masturbation, Secret Relationship, Sex Shop, Sex Toys, Sexual Inexperience, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3626940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofshore/pseuds/birdsofshore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Albus isn't going to spend any more time thinking about Draco. No, not at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes from Unguarded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sophie_French](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie_French/gifts).



> For [Sophie_French](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie_French/pseuds/Sophie_French) Happy belated birthday, dear!
> 
> Thank you so much to my betas, [lumosed_quill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lumosed_quill) and [raitala](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raitala/pseuds/raitala) for all their help with this.

_September_

Scorp loves Potions. He's so bloody good at it, the bastard. The ingredients seem to just fall into place at the merest look from him, so his tentacula root is lying neatly severed in papery slices, half a millimetre thick just as the potion requires, while mine is still clumping together and oozing a revolting sort of sap.

“So, I told him they had no chance at all of beating us, especially not now I've got the Aurora, but he said, with their new Keeper—”

I can't even really concentrate on what he's saying. It's all I can do to stop the root from skidding away onto the floor. I sneak a sideways look at how he's holding the blade. It's definitely his technique – is it all that practice he does at home? He grasps it more lightly than me, I think... Professor Madrigal always tells me not to use so much pressure.

I pull my attention away and have another go. The root is all slimy, now, and slips under my fingers. _Hell._ Scorpius is onto his third piece and making easy work of it. The way his fingers move, so elegant and deft, the knife moving just so, this way and that... it's sort of mesmerising. _Snick. Snick._ I love the sound his blade makes, precise and perfect, the rhythm easy, but unerring.

“Anyway, Serena was there when I caught the Snitch, and I'm sure she was watching me, you know, how you can just tell when a girl is interested— ah, well, _you_ never seem to notice _anything_ , but—”

I think Scorp maybe has the right sort of _hands_ for this. I look at mine, frowning at a smudge of ink along my thumb. I've been biting my nails again, without Mum around to remind me to stop. Scorp's hands just look more adept, the fingers long and slender, the nails always neatly manicured. He pushes his root to one side and takes up the valerian, manoeuvring the blade as if it's an extension of his hand.

“Hey, Al, imagine if Serena's brother liked you? I mean, I don't even think he's gay, and he's only about sixteen in fact, but wouldn't it be hilarious? We could go on dates together, and―”

He's so lucky... his hands are just like Mr Malfoy's. The same pale skin, the tapered fingers with their narrow knuckles. Sure, and capable, and decisive. I remember how Mr Malfoy's hands moved, the compelling dexterity as he drew the razor back and forth. An irresistible shiver thrills along my spine at the thought of _those_ fingers on me, pushing _inside_ me... and I'm gone. No matter that I wanked already this morning as soon as I woke up at first light, painfully hard. My cock is filling out, pressing against the seam of my trousers and clamouring for attention as though I haven't touched it for a week. I'm hard – properly hard – just from looking at my best friend's hands and thinking about his dad fingering me. Merlin.

“I think I'm going to ask her. I want to take her somewhere really cool, somewhere she's never been before, not some studenty sort of dive. I could wear my new tunic, what do you reckon? The reddish one... or perhaps the black one would be better...”

I shift in my seat, wincing at the chafe of stiff wool on tender flesh. Scorp's knife just works away with an inexorable rhythm. _Snick. Snick, snick_.

“Al, what do you think: red, or black? Al? Bloody hell, I don't think you're even listening to a word I'm saying.”

And another hour of potions to go.

*~*

_October_

Maybe this wasn't the greatest idea I ever had. A few guys in our year have been boasting about visiting Floggit and Tease's for months now, but I didn't think _I_ would end up here in the back room, shifting anxiously from foot to foot and staring around at all of the... _stuff_. Oh, my god, the things on sale here. I don't even know what half of this stuff is. I brush against a display of weird masks and flinch away as one of them winks at me.

My eye wanders back to a glass shelf, where several objects stand, tall and provocative, each one on a little pedestal that revolves to display it from all sides. There are different shapes, colours and sizes.

These. I know what _these_ are for. I look around quickly, but I'm still the only person in this part of the shop. My hand shakes a little as I reach out to touch one of them. It's softer than I expected – silky against my fingers. It's long, and slightly curved, and a pale silver-grey.

I want it.

More than that, I think I _need_ it.

I don't know. It's as if... since Mr Malfoy... I have to swallow hard against a lump in my throat, just thinking of it... since he _fucked_ me... it's as if ordinary wanking just isn't good enough any more. I still feel... well, kind of insatiable, even after I've just come. It doesn't matter if I whack off a fast one, just to take the edge off, and then have a really long drawn-out session, sensual and slow; I still ache for it. It's like there's a fire burning in me, now, and nothing that I do will put it out.

I just want to be fucked, so bad.

I know I could probably find someone to help me out. Scorpius says Rowan Tanner is gay, and that he keeps looking at me, like he's interested. He's OK, I suppose. Sort of sweet. But... I feel like he probably wouldn't know what to do. I don't want to be... fumbling about together, all awkward and clumsy. I want someone to show me how it's done. I want someone to make me feel like Mr Malfoy did. I want someone to make me feel like I can let go, and they'll just look after me, and make it so right.

My pulse is thudding in my ears as I take it down from the shelf. It's light, but solid, too. It's pliable, and the ticket on the shelf explains about the different spells you can use with it – it's got different heat charms, and something called a Ravishment Spell. I don't dare imagine what that would feel like. Not until I get back home.

It's long. Long, and not too thick, and, fuck's sake, I'm already hard again, just standing here looking at it. Just holding it in my hand and thinking about how it compares to Mr Malfoy's cock. Mr Malfoy is thicker, definitely. When he pushed inside me, the stretch burned and made me want to cry out, to yelp like an animal. Then, later, it felt so good. So very good. As in, wanting to sob into his pillow, losing my fucking mind at how completely blissful it felt. But then, he knew just what to do, to get me to relax. Maybe, on my own, it would be good to start with something more slender, like this.

I hear footsteps coming, and hurriedly place the dildo back on the shelf. I move away from it, adjusting my cloak so it hangs down to cover the bulge in my jeans, and find myself next to a rack of whips instead. _Merlin._ I look around anxiously for somewhere safe to stand. But he's already in the doorway, the guy who was serving at the counter when I came in. He's wearing a sleeveless shirt and there are big dragon tattoos wrapped around both of his meaty biceps.

“Everything OK?”

“Yeah, fine.” My voice sounds high and breathless. He's going to think I'm about twelve.

He leans against the doorway, looking me up and down. “If you want to have a closer look at anything in the cases...” He gestures towards a glass cabinet full of contraptions made of leather and glittering metal, all complicated buckles and pointed studs. They look completely terrifying.

I shake my head quickly.

“Well, just let me know.” He stares as if he's seen into my head. As if he knows what it is I think about every night. What I burn for. He smirks. “If there's anything you need help with.”

He slouches off into the front room again. Was that... did he? I shake my head. My eyes flick back to the dildo. _My_ dildo. I glance at the others on the shelf, but they don't compare. Too short and stumpy. Or thick and brutal-looking. One of them is made of glass and looks cold and unyielding. My one, my silver-grey, is so long and perfect, with a soft sheen to it. I take it down from the shelf again and feel it, glossy and slightly warm, so tactile in my hand.

I peer through into the front of the shop, but the giggling couple that were there when I arrived seem to have left now. I take a deep breath and walk to the counter. While I try to pretend to myself that I'm buying something really dull. Like... socks. Yeah, socks. Or headache potion.

The guy smirks as I slide the package across to him, but doesn't say anything other than “Thirty-five galleons.” Man, that's about eight weeks allowance. Lucky I brought plenty of gold with me.

“Lube?” The guy raises one pierced eyebrow.

“Uh... sorry?”

“Do you need any lube potion with that? It's buy one, get one free.”

“Uh. Erm, yes. Yeah, great.” _Oh, god, shut up, Albus._

He reaches over to a basket. “Which flavour?”

“Oh, I don't really mind. You can choose.” Fucking _hell_. The guy looks as if he wants to burst out laughing.

“How about apple? Or...” He sorts through the little bottles. “Cherry is popular.”

“Fine. Yup.”

“You don't want bacon.” His eyebrows are low and serious, but his mouth is twitching, and coming here was definitely the most stupid idea I've ever had in my entire life.

I pay, my hands slick with sweat and my face burning. I stash the bag away at the bottom of my backpack ( _FLOGGIT AND TEASE_! it flashes, in red and gold lettering) and then I'm out of the shop and safe among the crowds again, but my head is somewhere else entirely, dreaming of a slick cock fucking into me again and again, cool fingers gripping my hips to hold me in place as he drives into me. I'm hard all the way home, my prick trapped and throbbing with need with every single step I take.

  
*~*

_November, about 2 weeks after the Weasleys' party_

Everybody knows that History of Magic is the most boring bloody class in the whole world. But, today, something interesting happens. Professor Binns is absent. This is kind of interesting all by itself, and no-one can remember it ever happening before. I mean, can a ghost be ill? Why would a ghost take a day off?

Anyway, today a real live human called Professor Gladstone takes the class and begins by asking a few questions about what we've been studying. I don't expect anyone to answer, of course – I can't believe _anyone_ has been paying attention, but then Miriam pipes up from the back that she thinks it was the Giant Wars, again, and I have to admit that it does sound vaguely familiar.

Professor Gladstone shakes her head. “Same old Binns, eh? I don't expect you've looked at anything later than the 19th Century?”

Glancing around, most people's faces are pretty blank. Gladstone sighs. “I thought as much. That's when he died, and updating the curriculum doesn't seem to have been a high priority for him. Perhaps I should spend today's class bringing you briefly up to date.”

She begins to run quickly through the key events of the last hundred years, but it's not noticeably more interesting than when Binns takes the class. Either that or I've just become accustomed to daydreaming my way through this hour. I don't know why I even carried on with the subject. Dad said it was important to learn from the mistakes of the past, but Uncle Ron said, in that case, why not learn from the fact that Binns never taught anyone a single bloody thing. Then he and Mum had a row about disrespecting the children's professors in our hearing. All of which was far more interesting than any History of Magic lesson ever, including this one.

I gaze out of the window where I'm pretty sure I can see Scorp's bright head of hair flashing to and fro in the distance over the Quidditch pitch. Lucky sod must have a free period and have found some others to join him in a game. I'm just wondering if I can follow the play from this distance, when something catches my eye and my head snaps around towards Professor Gladstone.

She's Charmed some kind of symbol to appear in the air. Its glittering green light pulses and fades, but what it shows is clear enough: a skull with a snake's head slithering out of its mouth like a tongue.

“This is the Dark Mark, the infamous sign used by Tom Riddle and his supporters. They referred to their leader as Lord Voldemort and pledged their allegiance to his regime of terror by branding this mark upon their arms and setting it in the sky above any spot where they had killed.”

_Merlin bloody fuck._

“Riddle's followers, known as Death Eaters, believed in pureblood supremacy and practised the Dark Arts.”

 _It can't be. It just―_ My chest lurches with a sick emptiness.

“Riddle could summon his Death Eaters by means of the Mark. After their murder of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore―”

 _Bloody— shit. That's the guy who I'm named for―_ My hands ‒ my entire arms ‒ feel completely numb and cold.

“Then, when the Ministry of Magic was overthrown in 1997, blood status became a crucial issue even here at Hogwarts.”

_It can't be. Oh, fuck, it can't be. Mr Malfoy's got that bloody thing on his arm, for fuck's sake. She can't seriously be saying that he was a―_

I think I might be about to throw up.

“Muggle-born students were sent to Azkaban...”

_It's got to be a‒ a joke. Scorp's dad didn't kill anyone. Surely? I know my dad doesn't exactly love the Malfoys, but―_

“...used torture and Unforgivables...”

A couple of things Scorp once said are coming back to me. And maybe making sense at last. _My dad got mixed up in a load of bad stuff during the War, you know?_

What, like _murdering_ people because of who their parents were?

Why the hell did nobody _tell_ me?

I try to breathe steadily, pushing down the feelings of panic and shame bubbling up in my throat.

Oh, I can probably work out why. I can hear Aunt Hermione's voice in my head, from boring conversations round the dinner table when I was allowed to stay up with the grown-ups, my eyes drooping, but determined to stay awake, like James. “We need to look _forwards_ ; the next generation deserves to grow up free from the shadow of the past. If we bring them up with the same old prejudices―”

Uncle George would usually start swearing at this point, and someone, usually Mum, would notice me and send me off to bed. And Aunt Hermione must have been pretty persuasive, because the talk of war and politics stopped while we kids were around, and no-one did ever tell me what _the same old prejudices_ actually were.

They never bloody tell me anything, anyway! James says I just don't listen, but it's not that ‒ they treat me like a child....

My hands are almost shaking. I stuff them into the pockets of my robes.

They've let me be friends with Scorp and his family ‒ they've made a bloody idiot out of me. I was with Dad once, we saw an old man in Diagon Alley who had one of them‒ a fucking _Dark Mark_ , and when I asked, Dad said it was just a thing some people had in the War. Why the hell‒ Oh, god, why...?

“... until, most fortunately for all of us, Harry Potter defeated Riddle at the Battle of Hogwarts in 1998. But, I've no doubt many of you know all this already.” She pauses to give me a meaningful smile, and thanks so much for that, Professor, because my face, which felt pale and numb, is now blazing with heat, my neck is prickling with disgust and confusion, some dickheads in the row behind me are sniggering. I fucking hate History of Magic; in fact, I think I'm going to go and tell McGonagall, just as soon as this class finishes, that me and History of Magic are finished.

I'm hot all over, but the worst thing is that my eyes are stinging, and I'm going to have to sit and act normal for another thirty minutes or so until I can get out of here. Act like I haven't just heard that the first person who ever fucked me – the _only_ person who ever fucked me – is some bloody evil, twisted, racist bastard....

I drop my head down and let my hair fall over my eyes. I don't even care if anyone else is looking. I'm just going to sit here for the next half an hour and stare at my hands in my lap – at my thumb with the raggedy nail, the long white scar on my little finger from when I fell out of a tree – and not listen to another bloody word she says.

I don't want to know. I don't want to _know_ that Scorp's family tried to hunt mine down. Helped to hand my dad over to Riddle, right psycho bastard he sounds. I don't want to know that when I've been with him, when I've been with Mr Malfoy, he's probably been laughing at the fact that I'm a complete innocent, Merlin, just a silly boy who'll do whatever the fuck he wants, even though he was a‒ a Death Eater. I've heard that term before, of course, knew it was something to do with the war back then, but it never seemed _real_ , like it could be something to do with real people that we know. Even the name makes me feel sick, even the sight of that bloody thing, hanging there in the air, a nauseating green colour, the snake's head probing lasciviously in and out of the gaping mouth like a perverted kiss.

I try to smother the sound that wants to escape from my throat. Mr Malfoy doesn't even bother to hide his Mark – he walked around his house with his shirt off, where anyone could see it. He doesn't even care, doesn't even feel ashamed of what he's done, of who he is...

A shiver twists deep inside me, feels like its gnawing into my bones, as I remember the faded, dirty-looking outline of the skull, the snake, moving close to my face as he lifted the razor to my jaw. The way it twisted and flexed as he moved his hands, so knowing, so sure, so _right_....

Ugh, unbelievably wrong. I remember seeing the shape of it close to my cheek when he fucked me. How he covered my body with his, thrusting deep inside me, filling me, making me feel like he was made to fit me, like my body was made for him to fuck. The empty sockets of the skull saw nothing, but the snake's tongue seemed to flicker out as if eager to taste my skin.

I glance up again, through a curtain of my hair, at the shimmering Mark floating in the air at the front of the classroom, and even as I swallow hard against the sour taste in my throat, I'm semi-hard. This traitor cock remembers all too well how he made me feel. And the sight of that bloody thing, the malevolent lines of it... it just reminds me of him. Of everything that he showed me that night.

I'm so fucked. I've had sex with a man I've just found out might be a murderer and I'm hard for him. I want him still ‒ oh, god, I want him. I'm so completely fucked.

*~*

The common room is empty when Scorp stalks in, all lean limbs and sharp chin, his hair ruffled back off his face from flying. He throws himself down on one of the sofas with a satisfied sigh and puts his legs up on the seat. “Just thrashed the arse off those Ravenclaw posers,” he grins, then looks at me properly. “What's up?”

Shit. He can always tell.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit, Al. What's happened?”

“Seriously, nothing.”

“Are you pissed off you didn't get to play, too? I'm as fed up as you are of all this work they keep piling on us, but I had a free period and I thought, why the fuck not―”

“No, it's not that. Scorp―”

“ _What_?”

“Binns wasn't there today. We had a different professor. She talked about the war.”

He sits up, then, a frown beginning in between his eyebrows.

“What did your dad do? Back then?” I try to ask casually, but I know it sounds odd and strained. I watch Scorpius' face carefully. His lips are pressed together.

“I told you this before. He got mixed up with some bad stuff. It was a‒ a fucking terrible time.”

I don't say anything. Scorp swallows. “My grandfather... “ His eyes dart to mine, and then he crosses his legs. “Well, you presumably know all about it, now.”

“She didn't mention... any names.”

I can see his face relax a bit.

“Well, except my dad.”

Scorp smiles, but it's a thin one. “Your dad. Of course. Wouldn't life be dull if we all had dads who were heroes? Listen. My father may not have been a hero, but he's not‒ it doesn't mean he's a bad person. OK?”

“But... the Mark. He's got the Mark―”

“How do you know about that?” Scorp's face is cold, suddenly, and suspicious, and I realise with a jolt that Mr Malfoy's robes always cover his arms; he wears his sleeves long, and, even in summer, he dresses formally. It was only at night, only in his own home, only when it was just the two of us, that he took his shirt off....

I try not to let any of this show on my face, but I'm useless at this. My face feels tight with guilt and I just don't know what to think when Scorp sits there talking about it so calmly. Scorp is staring at me, waiting for an answer.

“I just... saw it. When I stayed with you in the Summer.”

His eyes narrow, but it seems to satisfy him. “Why do you care so much about my father, anyway? I thought we were friends because of‒ because of _us_ ‒ not because of who our families are. I like _you,_ Al, not your famous bloody family.” He lets out a deep sigh. “My dad made some mistakes, OK? It was nearly thirty years ago, and he made some mistakes. Didn't you ever make a bloody mistake?” He leans back on the sofa and sticks his long legs up on the seat again. “Hell, Al, can we change the subject? I don't know what's up with you this term.”

“I‒ I‒”

I want to say, _I'm sorry, but I just found out I lost my virginity to some kind of Pureblood supremacist._ I want to ask, _Did your dad kill anybody?_ But Merlin, surely Scorp would have said, if―

Something hits me on the back of the head and I shout in annoyance. A snort of laughter precedes another cushion being aimed at Scorpius. Bloody Marchant and Perroni have sneaked in while we were talking and ambushed us. A third missile flies in our direction and then Scorpius is on his feet and grinning as he sends all three cushions flying back, catching Marchant squarely in the face. I scramble for cover as they retaliate with a Stinging Jinx, and then there's a whoop of triumph as Scorpius Accios a vase of flowers and empties it ‒ water, flowers and all ‒ over Perroni's head.

Five minutes later, when McGonagall walks in, the common room is kind of the worse for wear. My hair is a startling shade of blue, and I can hardly breathe for laughing at the sight of Marchant's ears, which have been Jinxed to the size of cauliflowers. Scorpius has escaped mostly unscathed, but it looks like McGonagall is planning to make up for that.

“I could hear your racket right down at the bottom of the tower! Are you NEWT students or are you first years?” she asks in her most disapproving tones. “Put everything back exactly where it should be and then come right along to my office. I can't believe such behaviour from students of your age!”

Scorp gives me a serious look as, together, we put the sofa right side up again and start to unroll Perroni's skinny body from the heavy rug we'd managed to trap him in. “I've only got one thing to say to you, Albus Potter.”

My chest feels tight. “What?”

“Your hair looks really good that colour.” He snorts with laughter. “God, Al, don't look so worried! Why don't you keep it like that? Bet your mum would be delighted when you go home for Christmas.”

Christmas. Bloody hell. But perhaps I'll have forgotten all about this whole thing by then.

*~*

_December, Christmas holidays_

It's toasty-warm, and my stomach is full of sweet berry juice. Celestina Warbeck is singing about finding a special someone under the mistletoe, and Grandma's kitchen is hung with twinkling lights and bunches of holly, bright with berries. Lily's voice is high and excited as she chatters away about her wonderful new professor and how much she loves Arithmancy now. It's so obvious she has a massive crush on him. She's a funny kid sometimes, with her books, and her projects, so it's good to hear her sounding like a typical teenager. Pity the first person she seems to be interested in is some old guy in his forties, over twice her―

Oh.

Something jolts through my chest like I missed a step, and I let my hair fall down over my face to hide the warmth that I can feel spreading there. Damn, I'll be eighteen in a couple of months, but I still blush as easily as when I was ten. At least Lily won't notice: she's too busy telling Grandma how Professor Darton has the most interesting voice (like melted chocolate, apparently), but I have to stop bloody thinking about Mr Malfoy.

It's been weeks since Uncle Ron's party and he hasn't got in touch or anything. Not that I ever thought he would. I mean, how could he? It's not like he could turn up at Hogwarts and say, _Oh, hi everyone, I've just dropped in to see Albus Potter. I think we'll pop up to his dorm now so I can stick my cock in his mouth again._

I just thought... if he did get in contact. I could ask him. About the war. About all that stuff I'm trying not to think about. Really. I have to draw the line somewhere, or lose the fucking plot altogether. I can't keep dwelling on the fact that, god, I let a man fuck me and now I feel like I don't know who he is or anything about him. That he might have been... well, I know for sure that he _was_ mixed up in some very bad stuff. Even Scorpius said it. Does that mean he's still a bad person? I don't know. I just don't know. I'm not going to think about it. The fact that he might be... like that, and yet I still can't stop thinking about him all the time.

I even tried to ask James when he was home last week – which goes to show how desperate I was. I just mentioned something about why Dad didn't like Mr Malfoy much, and James got totally the wrong end of the stick, of course.

“Look, Scorpius Malfoy is a dick, but if you want to be friends with him, go ahead and knock yourself out. Dad doesn't mind. Do what you like.”

It was getting me nowhere, but I tried again. “But, in the war―”

“That's ancient history now, Albie. And despite all the things his family admittedly got up to, your dear Scorpius can't be held responsible for anything that happened in the war.”

So James did know. I thought so. But it was hopeless.

“Don't worry so much, little bro.” I grimaced as he ruffled my hair. “Mum's right about you. You stress too much.”

Fuck. If only I could be sure that Scorp was right— that his dad was— I mean— No. Not thinking about that, remember?

Mr Malfoy could have Owled, though, even if he couldn't come to Hogwarts. But of course I knew he wouldn't.

I don't even bloody want to see him again, anyway. Any time I fool myself that I do, I remember the way he looked as he got me dressed and shoved me out of the summerhouse, to where my dad was calling for me.

Like I was nobody. Like it meant nothing. Like he couldn't care less what happened to me, as long as _he_ didn't get caught.

I ball my hands into fists in my lap and will the hot prickling I can feel in the corners of my eyes to go away. _It's nothing_ , I tell myself. _It doesn't matter. You knew he didn't feel the same, knew he would never―_

I'm not going to think about it any of it any more.

Grandma is busy at the counter, sleeves rolled up to reveal her strong arms as she uses the wooden spoon to draw her ingredients together into one massive ball of dough. The air is filled with the tempting smell of gingerbread spice from the batch that's already in the oven. I love it here at Christmas time; it always makes me feel so safe, so cosy. Grandma uses her hands to scrape every last bit from the bowl and then brings the dough over to where she's sprinkled flour on the kitchen table, throwing it down with a soft, satisfying _plomp_ in front of me and Lils.

I breathe deeply, inhaling the richness and the sweetness, letting it calm me. I remember being a little boy, maybe three or four, watching Grandma working the dough with her big floury hands. She seemed so big, then, and now she only comes up to my shoulder, but her hands are still strong and supple as they toss the dough around, working out all of the lumps.

“Do you want to help?” she asks Lily, offering her an apron, and I smile and remember the excitement of being allowed to bake actual biscuits in Grandma's kitchen as soon as we were old enough to wield a rolling pin. Mum wasn't really one for home cooking, although Dad makes a mean loaf of bread and sometimes a cake, too, when he has a day off. Lily nods, her red curls bouncing, and soon the dough's flattened and smoothed and ready for cutting out.

“Mmm. It smells really good,” Lily says, and a smile stretches across Grandma's face.

“My own spice mixture,” she nods. “A secret recipe, but I know I can trust you two. Ginger, of course.” She counts on her fingers. “Allspice. Cinnamon, nutmeg. Then cardamom ‒ oh, and anise and cloves. A lot of people miss those out ‒ they think they're too bitter, but it adds something that brings all of the other flavours together. It's no good piling sweetness on top of sweetness. It's like anything in life: you have to have troubles to truly relish the good times.” She reaches for a small jar filled with reddish-brown powder and wafts it under Lily's nose. “Ah, now, how's that?”

Lily wrinkles her nose as she sniffs delicately, then makes a happy, approving sound in her throat. “Perfect!”

Grandma wafts the jar under my nose and I smile too as the smells curl into my nostrils: the sweetness, the piquancy, the layers of it, warm and pleasing. I close my eyes and let the sensations that it conjures up wash over me. The giddiness of a stack of parcels, rustling with paper and bright ribbons. Numb, frozen toes pricking painfully back to life after a snowball fight. A low, authoritative voice telling me how good I am, how well I'm doing, as long, clever fingers work their way inside me, smoothing spicy slickness where no-one had ever touched me before, setting every nerve ending abuzz with warmth and longing―

Oh, sweet fucking Merlin.

Mr Malfoy's lube was heady with spices, and when he stroked it across my arse I felt like whimpering with surprise at the feeling of someone touching me there for the first time – the tingling that flickered over my most intimate place, making me squirm and draw away.

I open my eyes and push the spice jar away, knocking some of the contents on my hand and spilling it across the table. Grandma frowns as I screw my face up. “Sorry, Grandma. It's great,” I reassure her. “Just tickled my nose.”

The smell is everywhere; it feels like there's no escape from it. I don't know whether I want to sink back and let it seduce me, or get up and make a run for it. Lily's rolling out another ball of dough, the first batch are turning golden and the spices swirl around me, making me dizzy.

The thing is – in all my fantasies, I never dreamed anybody could make me feel so good. He knew just when to wait and when to push in a little deeper. Knew how to go slow, how to make me long for it so much that every part of me felt liquid, till I was nothing but hunger and need and a painful, blissful wanting that stripped away everything I knew and left only instinct and the urgency of my body's desires. How to speak to me, to reassure me that he knew what I needed, that he knew my most secret thoughts. He knew just how to move, stroking inside me, twisting, loosening me, making me ready for him, making me _his_... a choking sound tries to escape from my throat and I clamp my lips closed, letting the hard edge of the table dig into my stomach to try to distract myself.

Oh, god. I don't know if I'll ever have that feeling again, and I'm not sure if I can live without it.

Grandma's holding the tin of gingerbread cutters out in front of me. The simple shapes – a tree, a dove, a star – blur in front of my eyes as I stare at them.

“Do you want to help, Albus, lovey?” she asks, her wrinkled face soft with concern, and I feel like the shittiest bastard who's ever been born.

“Not right now, thank you. I'm still a bit tired – do you mind if I go and lie down?” My voice sounds funny, and my knees are unsteady as I get up from the table and go to the room that's always mine when we stay here – I think it used to be Uncle Charlie's or something. I ward the door, get under the covers and pull open my trousers impatiently. Merlin, I hate myself sometimes. I stifle a moan as I take my hot prick into my hand and wank with quick, angry strokes, shuddering at the sudden stimulation on my sensitive flesh. I press my other hand, where the spilled spices left their scent, to my nose. Cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves... _ahhh_ , how good it was to press my face into his sheets, cool and expensive, as his cock nudged its way inside me, insistent and oh, _god_ , my orgasm rolls over me, unstoppable, irresistible, yes, yes, _please_ , yes....

I know I'm too loud as I come, but it's too late to cast any Charm by the time I hear my own guttural groan – the shame all muddled up with the relief making the pleasure, perversely, more intense. I can still hear the radio crooning downstairs and I pray it's enough to drown it out. _Hell_. My hands twist in the sheets and I hide my burning face in the pillow. I'm some kind of freak – getting hard like that, just from the smell of gingerbread, in my Grandma's kitchen, with my little sister right there, and having to run upstairs to wank, like a kid. Not even being able to keep quiet while I'm doing it.

I wish I'd never met Mr Malfoy, or Scorpius, either. _Malfoys are nothing but trouble_ ; Uncle Ron told me that once. What am I supposed to do when I remember it all, remember every fucking detail like it was yesterday, but thinking about it is never enough? Never nearly enough.


End file.
